


If I Was

by finn1013



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finn1013/pseuds/finn1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin is injured during the search for Mordred, his friendship with Arthur is changed forever.  Angst.  Starts after 5.11, then AU to the end of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Merlin was sure the bunny would be soft and cuddly, if only he could hold it.

He stretched out a hand, blinking in bemusement when its eyes glittered with what seemed to be an unfriendly light.  Then _jump, jump, jump_ :  it waved a miniature sword in one small paw, its ears twitched, then the sword slashed down, and his head:   _oww!_

His vision wavered and he flung an arm out to steady himself, but the earth heaved, the tree he’d staggered against shoved back, and his surroundings blurred to a confusing jumble of multi-coloured greens.

He fell hard, jarring his knees and his hands.  For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.  Something warm was trickling down the back of his head; it felt _wrong_ and he batted at it clumsily and nearly managed to fall on his face.

The world was turning in slow motion, had he tampered with time?  Everything felt thick and fuzzy, like he was swimming through molasses.  He must have moved; now his hand was flat in the grass.  He stared at his fingers with slow incomprehension as if they didn’t belong to him: they were sticky now with a coating of blood.

The bunny was still there, watching him now with a quizzical expression on its furry face.  One ear twitched back and forth waving _farewell_ , _farewell, farewell_.  Then it threw its sword away, dropped down on all four paws and began nuzzling his head.

_No, wait._

What?

Someone was petting his head.

The touch barely penetrated the confusion clouding his mind, but he struggled through the growing void:  and there it was again, the light sensation of a hand stroking his forehead.

His eyelids fluttered as the earth beckoned him with its siren song:  he didn’t know how it had happened, but somehow he was lying on his back in the damp grass.

He became aware of a sound:  someone was moaning deep and loud, and the noise hurt his head.  _Stop it, be quiet, go away_ , he wanted to say, and his mouth moved but nothing came out, yet the noise died away.

He was tired, so tired ...

“No, Merlin.  Don’t you dare.  Wake up.”

The summons was urgent, and the urge to pay attention was strangely familiar.  He stirred and someone moaned again, the command was repeated and his eyes fluttered open to a blur of blond hair.

“Finally.  I wondered if you were going to laze around forever.”

He blinked, and struggled weakly, but there was a hand pressing against his shoulder, holding him still.  He tried to focus on the face, and make his lips move.  “Wh ...?”  He wanted to ask _what happened?_ , but his mouth couldn’t seem to shape the words.

The man seemed to understand, and expression of pain marred the man’s face.  “I couldn’t get to you in  
time.”

He breathed slowly.  It made no sense, and his lack of understanding must have shown because the man shook his head.  “Here.  Can you try and sit up?”

He tried to say _yes,_ but his tongue was too heavy, and the man helped him up anyway, sliding an arm under his shoulders.  The movement jarred his head, and fierce pain burned through him like a pyre, and he barely managed to turn his head to the side before he was violently sick all over the ground.  The effort exhausted him.

“Arthur, oh God, the back of his head.  It’s all over his jacket too.  Look.”

_His head?_   Was there something wrong with him?  It didn’t seem to matter.  He wanted to shut his eyes again, but the man wasn’t having it.

“No, Merlin, you can’t go back to sleep.  You’re bleeding, and we have to stop it.  You’ve got to tell us how to help you.  Do you understand me?”

He grunted a response, and time twisted away from him again, and he didn’t know if it was then or years later but the pressure in his head increased until he thought he’d explode.  Someone was moaning again, and he tried to tell them: _ssssh,_ and _shutup, shutup, shutup_ , but then it didn’t matter because everything went away.

When he woke up it was night.

He couldn’t see anyone, but he could hear the murmur of voices nearby.  He was lying on his side, wrapped up tightly in several layers of blankets.  The cicadas were in song.  He was hot.  The glow from the camp fire hurt his eyes.

He must have moved or made a sound, because the man was back.

“Merlin, you were hurt.”  The man knelt down, his face was partly in the shadows but it looked like he was frowning.  “How are you feeling?”

Someone else said, “He’s awake?”

He blinked slowly.

“Merlin?”

It was too dark to see the the man’s face properly but he heard the concern in his voice, and it tugged at him from somewhere deep down.  “Um.”  He cleared his throat and tried again, his mouth was so dry that his voice was a whisper.  “Thirsty.”

He struggled to sit up and the man murmured, “Of course,” and he was gathered up, and the uninjured side of his head was propped against the hard armour on the man’s shoulder.  The cold metal felt soothing against the fire raging inside him.

“Gwaine, Leon, hurry up.”

He looked around slowly.  There were other figures near the campfire, and one of them crouched down beside them, holding something.  His blanket fell down a little, freeing one arm.  A flask was pressed against his lips.

He took a wobbly sip, swishing the water around to rinse away the foul taste in his mouth.  He tried to spit it out on the ground but some of it dribbled down his chin, and a soft cloth pressed against the side of his mouth, wiping gently.

He wanted to sleep again, but the man wanted to talk, his tone pitched low in the dark.  “Can you remember what happened?”

He didn’t answer, and the man said, “It was Mordred, do you remember?  We’d almost caught up with him, you were hit, and he used magic to escape.”

Magic.  Of course, he should have thought of that.  Magic.  He tried to touch his head but his arm wouldn’t co-operate: still, he murmured to himself, “ _Gehalge_ ,” but his focus was off, and the spell slipped away.

The man sighed, and put a hand across his forehead.  “You’re too hot, Merlin.”

He let the man help him lie back down and rearrange his blankets, taking away two of the layers that had been covering him.  He could see him better now, his face was thrown into sharp relief with the glow of the campfire highlighting his features.  There was something about him, something ... “You ...”  He coughed and licked his lips and tried again.  “You’re ... Arthur.”

But the man ... _Arthur_ ... didn’t look pleased to be recognised; instead Arthur’s mouth parted as if he was going to speak, but then he hesitated, frowning, and exchanged a glance with someone across the campfire.  A hand smoothed over his forehead again, this time lingering on the side of his head, stroking through his hair, soothing.  “Of course I am.”

“Uh ...” he trailed off, wanting to ask, but uncertain if he should.

“What is it?”

For a moment he was troubled, but there was something so strong drawing him to this man, clearing a way through the fog that was enveloping his head.  He _knew_ , somehow, that he could trust this man with his life, he knew this man was his dearest friend, that Arthur must have a reason for ... _it_ ... and whatever Arthur’s reason was, then Arthur would tell him.

His chest moved up and down slowly as he processed that thought.  He felt calm, but there was something ... not quite right ... something he was forgetting ... something, if only he could remember ... but the twinge of unease was ephemeral and slipped away.

“Merlin, what is it?”

Arthur was golden in the firelight, glowing as if he’d been lit by magic.  And _yes_ : yes he knew, this was right.   Arthur was his destiny, Arthur was his king, Arthur was why he lived and breathed.

“Why do you ...”  He paused, because his eyes felt heavy but he wouldn’t sleep.  The hand was still soothing and for a moment he focused on it.  “Why do you ... call me that?”

“Merlin?  You mean why do we call you Merlin?”  Arthur shook his head, he seemed a little unhappy now.  “What then, should we call you?”

He knew his destiny.  He knew the prophecies.  He knew the reasons why he’d been put on this earth.  “Emrys,” he said, and saying the name aloud stirred something elemental in his blood.  “I’m Emrys, Arthur.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The ride back to Camelot was slow.  Merlin had not been capable of staying on a horse unaided, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably again as he tried to relieve the cramp in his left arm without disturbing the dead weight slumped against his chest.  He urged his horse on for the home stretch as dusk fell again:  they were all weary.

Merlin hadn’t woken for hours.  They’d attempted to head back to Camelot shortly after the sun rose, but as soon as Merlin was upright again he’d alternated between bouts of vomiting and agitation, followed by periods of semi-lucidity.

In the end, against Arthur’s better judgement he’d allowed Percival to administer a tincture of belladonna from the half-empty jar they’d found in Merlin’s medicine bag:  that at least sent him into unconsciousness, which meant he was transportable.

His lifelessness when he was under the drug’s influence caused Arthur more than a moment’s concern, as did the hints of fresh blood that seeped now and then through the bandage on his head, but after several stops where Percival was able to confirm that Merlin’s breathing and heart rate remained steady, Arthur allowed himself to think that they _would_ make it to Gaius in time.

Merlin had only stirred once since they’d administered the drug and that had been hours ago;  his eyes had flickered but hadn’t opened, his hand had fisted against Arthur’s armour-covered chest before falling limp, and he’d muttered a single word of gibberish _“Gehalge,”_ before subsiding into a state of unresponsiveness again.

They hadn’t dared send a lone rider from their group to Camelot on a fast gallop to collect Gaius or get reinforcements:  the thing was, they should have been safe from attack, a patrol had cleared the area only the previous day.  But now Merlin was injured, and Mordred was still out there somewhere with the small dragon they’d last seen with Morgana.  They had the Gods to thank that at least it had only been Mordred and the beast:  if Morgana had been there with the mercenaries she was rumoured to be gathering, then the outcome could have been so much worse for all of them.

Gwen had met them as soon as they’d ridden into the courtyard.  Now she sat beside the unconscious figure lying on Gaius’s patient bed, and smoothed a damp cloth over Merlin’s forehead.  She’d refused to leave Merlin’s side as Gaius and Arthur stripped Merlin’s blood-stained shirt and jacket off, and then she’d helped them both dress him in a clean night-shirt.

“Sire, the injury to his head doesn’t account for the entirety of his condition.”  After Gaius’s initial alarm when they’d burst into the room with Percival carrying Merlin, the physician had reverted to his usual professional demeanour, although Arthur knew him well enough to see his own worry mirrored in Gaius’s eyes.  “From what you’ve described: his confusion, not recognising you, the agitation:  no, there’s more than just the wound at play here.”

Arthur was impassive.  “Could it be the belladonna’s effects?”

“That certainly wouldn’t be helping.”  Gaius gave Percival a reproving glance and the knight shuffled his feet sheepishly.  “But no, see the wound?  There’s a shimmer in the dried blood there:  it’s unnatural.”

“Mordred yelled out a spell in Merlin’s direction just before he made his escape.  It blasted a boulder apart right beside Merlin, he must have been hit, but we didn’t see it, we were all distracted by the dragon.”

Gaius acknowledged Gwaine’s comment with a nod.  “Yes, a rock hitting his head would certainly cause an injury, but the wound itself is little more than a scratch, and he shouldn’t have bled nearly as much as he did.  I suspect he may have been touched by sorcery too.  I’ll be able to look into it further when he wakes, sire.”

After a few more pointed comments and the unrestrained use of his favourite eyebrow, they all acknowledged Gaius’s less than subtle hints that they should leave, and the physician gave a sigh of relief as the door shut behind them.

“Oh my boy, what happened to you?”  Gaius lingered beside the bed for a moment to gaze down at his patient.  All he could do now was to wait for the belladonna to wear off so he could properly judge his ward’s condition when he woke.

No, that wasn’t true, there was one more thing he could do.  He crossed the room to the bookshelves, reaching up high in the stacks.  It took a few tries but eventually he found the volume he wanted:  it was old like most of the texts on that shelf, and one of the less common variations of the druid triskellion decorated its cover.

Gaius placed the book carefully on the small stool beside Merlin’s bed, and dragged a chair across to Merlin’s side.  He settled down and continued Gwen’s ministrations, squeezing out excess water from the cloth again before folding it back over Merlin’s forehead.

Dawn was near breaking before Merlin stirred, and it was his own name voiced that caused Gaius to snort awake from his perch beside Merlin’s bed.

“You’re back with us.”  Gaius didn’t disguise the relief in his tone as he helped his patient sit up.

After eyeing Gaius warily for a moment in the pale, pre-dawn light, Merlin seemed to relax slightly.  He took the offered vial, regarding it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and making a face when he caught a whiff of the contents.  However he drank the medicine obediently, and by the time he’d finished a cup of water too, he was a lot more alert.  “Ugh.”  He cleared his throat and said slowly, “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

Merlin touched his head gingerly.  “Uh ... Mordred.  Aithusa.”  His speech was hesitant, as if he had to think before he could speak.  “Morgana wasn’t there.  But –“  He suddenly panicked and attempted to swing his legs over the side of the bed.  “Arthur, where is he?”

“No, no, Arthur is fine, completely fine.  Lie back down.  And all the knights are safe too.  You were the only one injured.”  Still tense, Merlin stilled for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped, and he ran a trembling hand through his hair.  Pale again, he sank back down on the pillow and swallowed uneasily, and Gaius recognised the signs and moved hastily to grab a bowl.

The medicine came back up again, but fortunately the vomiting eased quickly.  By the time Merlin had managed to keep another dose of medicine and a few sips of water down his strength was waning, but Gaius couldn’t allow him to sleep, not yet.  “Be patient my boy, I need to examine you properly.”

Merlin grimaced, but he answered Gaius’s queries patiently, though his speech was still a little slow, and once or twice he seemed to hesitate:  _Camelot, my home with you.  Porridge and raspberries.  I cured her at the Cauldron of Arianrhod.  Kilgharrah.  It was Gwaine._

“And what of your magic?  Any ill effects?”

Merlin held his hand out, palm flat, and muttered into it, _“Leoht.”_  A clear blue sphere of light winked into existence.

Gaius nodded, satisfied.  “Well, other than the knock to your head, I’m sure you’ve been hit by a spell too, but I’d expect its effects to be limited mainly to confusion which is clearing up:  you’re recovering remarkably quickly again.  I’ll give you a potion to control any lingering nausea and headaches, but after a few days of rest you should recover completely.”

Merlin’s eyes dropped away, and he gazed at the light glowing in his hand.  “Gaius, I think ...” he hesitated, then closed his fingers, and the light disappeared.

“Out with it, my boy.”

Merlin rubbed his forehead, shutting his eyes briefly.  “There is ... that is ...”  Merlin stopped, frustrated.  “I feel there’s something I can’t remember, something important.”  He touched the bandage covering the cut behind his ear, probing gently but still wincing.  “I know ... who you are.  I know Arthur.  I remember ... or I know things, but ... there’s no detail.  I don’t know ...”  He trailed off.

“Don’t push yourself.  You’re exhausted, and a little confusion is to be expected, especially given the spell that I’m sure Mordred utilised.”

“You know what it was?”  Merlin’s fingers worried at the blanket.

“It’s obvious.  Some of the blood around the cut is glittering, it’s the physical embodiment of a magic that is not often seen.”  Gaius opened the page he’d marked in the book beside Merlin’s bed, and pointed.  “It’s known as _gescendp_ , a spell of confusion.  The shimmer on you is its hallmark.”

Curious despite his fatigue, Merlin edged himself up on his elbows, and Gaius helped him prop himself up on the pillow, then he placed the text across Merlin’s lap.  Merlin’s gaze flicked over the writing on the page, but his mind wandered:  he couldn’t understand why he’d allowed himself to be injured in such a way.  Why hadn’t he stopped Mordred, or commanded Aithusa to obey?

“You see, from what Arthur and the knights told me, Mordred didn’t appear to want to hurt any of you, he wanted to flee.”

It didn’t feel that way.  “And?”

“And you were in his way.  A _gescendp_ spell has various uses, but it’s primarily cast by sorcerers who also possess some seer abilities.  It’s often used to create an illusion in sacred rituals:  the recipient sees only what the sorcerer wants him to see.  It’s very useful, as an illusion uses very little of a sorcerer’s energy as nothing tangible is being altered.”

“But Mordred doesn’t have any seer abilities ... does he?”

“He may, we don’t know.  It’s said there are sorcerers who can utilise their abilities to see visions in crystals to attempt this spell, particularly if it’s cast through a crystal itself.  Do you remember if Mordred was holding anything in his hand when he cast?  You can probably cast this spell in some way, particularly if you used a crystal.”

“It’s a simple spell, Gaius.  I could cast it without a crystal.”  Gaius’s eyebrow rose at the bold assertion, but Merlin didn’t notice: he was finding it more difficult to stay awake and his pauses between sentences were getting longer.

Gaius closed the book and put it aside.  “Usually the spell’s recipient has a silver marking on the palm of their hand, yours is in the dried blood in your wound.  The marking symbolises willingness to take part in the illusion of the ritual.  It’s sometimes in the shape of a butterfly, but sometimes it’s no particular pattern.  The identifier is the silver shimmer.”

He adjusted Merlin’s pillow.  “I think Mordred was using it to cast an illusion of the surrounding forest in order to hide behind it and make his escape.  He was creating _confusion_ , in order to flee, if you may.  If he was careless with the spell then it may have hit you by accident.”

Merlin breathed slowly.  “Yes, I remember, now.”

“He _was_ holding a crystal?”

Merlin shrugged, then winced when the movement sent a spike of pain through his head.  “Not about that.”

His eyes slipped shut for a moment and he forced himself to continue, yet he was speaking so softly Gaius had to strain to hear.  “I was using mind-speech to control Aithusa, I must have been distracted, that must have been how Mordred was able to get to me.”  But he couldn’t work out why he’d used mind-speech:  it required a greater effort than using verbal commands did to tame the dragon’s will, and he didn’t recall using it on Aithusa before.

“You shouldn’t be concerned, Merlin.  The spell isn’t long lasting, and even if it was, your own magic is strong enough to defeat it eventually.  Your injury is minor, my guess is that you were hit by a rock as Gwaine described, at the same time as the spell flashed past.  That would explain your condition.”

It might.  Merlin closed his eyes again, willing the rising nausea and headache to settle.  Gaius might have said something more but he didn’t remember, he fell into a doze again, not waking until several hours later to the sound of a door closing.

He looked around:  he was alone.  He sat up with careful precision:  his head still hurt but the nausea had receded to a manageable level.  He felt an inexplicable, almost childish urge, to see Arthur.

He sat quietly on the bed for a while, but not seeing Arthur was starting to make him feel more and more anxious.  What if Gaius had been wrong, and Arthur had been injured?

He stood shakily:  he needed to be with Arthur, right now.

His legs were weak, but he managed to get across the room to the door without falling over.  He lingered in the passageway to catch his breath, walking slowly and turning away offers of assistance from a passing castle guard, and later, one of the serving maids, whose faces he was sure he should know but only seemed vaguely familiar.

He didn’t remember Arthur’s chambers being quite so far away.  There were black spots dancing across his eyes when he finally stumbled into the room.  It was empty, and Merlin sank down on a chair, crossing his arms and resting his head on them, at the table.

It seemed to be a long time before the dizziness receded.  Bleary-eyed, he looked around him properly for the first time:  a pair of crumpled breeches had been tossed across the end of the bed, and the padded undershirt Arthur wore beneath his chainmail was draped over his dressing screen beside his own blood-spattered neckerchief, the one he’d been wearing the previous day.  At the far end of the table, a fly was circling the remnants of lunch.  The bathwater was cold and uninviting in the tub.  And Arthur’s armour was in a filthy heap in the corner of the room.

He remembered this.  Merlin didn’t incant, he had no need.  He thought, and so it begun:  the clothes began to wash themselves in mid air, stains vanished into nothingness, and the scent of a summer’s day filled the room before the clean clothing began to fold itself and hop obediently into the wardrobe, as the cycle repeated itself for the next garment.

The dusting cloth stirred too, beginning its hunt over chairs, looping around bedposts and up high into the corners of the window panes.  The fire place shuffled its ashes into a neat pile until he thought better of it and the ash arrowed upwards into a thin, black line that ended in nothingness.  The bathwater followed suit, the water twisting around the spiral of ash as the bath began to drain upwards.

The magic soothed him, but his head was hurting again, and he was starting to feel uncomfortably hot as well.  And he was tired:  he leant his head back against the table and closed his eyes, leaving his magic to do its work.

He didn’t hear the door open and shut.  He didn’t hear the booted footsteps freeze.  He wasn’t aware of the faint hum of metal as Excalibur slid out of its sheath.

He did feel Arthur tugging him to his feet as he hissed low in his ear, “Sssh, Merlin, be quiet, don’t speak.  There’s a sorcerer, did you see him, did he hurt you?”

He blinked.  Arthur had an arm wrapped firmly around his waist, and he was dragging him backwards, Merlin’s back pressed against Arthur’s chest as the king urged them with cautious speed towards the closed door.  Excalibur was gripped firmly in Arthur’s right hand, and the king was scanning the room from side-to-side, searching for the hidden threat.

Merlin stumbled into awareness, his boots tangling with Arthur’s.  “No, Arthur, what are you doing?”

Arthur yanked him closer, and whispered in his ear.  “Quiet.  There’s a sorcerer.  I need to get you out of here.”

Why would Arthur think ...?  Merlin’s heart beat rapidly.  “I don’t understand.”  He didn’t:  magic, _his_ magic, saturated Arthur’s chambers, older spells layered beneath newer ones.  He said uncertainly, “What’s wrong?”

Something about the magic was bothering Arthur.  The clothes were clean, but the duster was still racing around madly like a hunting dog that’d scented a rabbit.  Merlin wriggled an arm free and waved it in the direction of the duster;  it stopped its movement, and against his ear Arthur let out a gasp.  The bath hadn’t finished draining but the fireplace looked clean enough, and a beat later the ash trail began to taper off as the ash disolved in the air.

Merlin tried to twist around to see Arthur’s face, but the king’s grip had tightened almost uncomfortably around his waist.  The tip of the sword trembled in front of them.

Realisation dawned, and there was anger and anguish breathing hot in Merlin’s ear.  “ _You’re_ doing this?”

Merlin was at a loss for words.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the movement of Arthur’s Adam’s apple up and down his throat.  He nodded hesitantly, and Arthur’s fingers spasmed against his side.

They both watched as the last of the bath water drained upwards and away, then in a quick, sharp movement, Merlin was free as Arthur released him and took an ungraceful step away.

“Get out.”

Merlin couldn’t move, couldn’t speak:  he could only watch Arthur’s tightly coiled tension.  The king had turned away, and his back was a rigid line.  “Arthur?”  Merlin’s voice was a thread of sound, shaking.  “But the dragon ... the prophecies ...”  He swallowed, and tried again.  “The dragon said ...”

Excalibur was flung roughly across the room, skidding to a halt against the far wall.  “Get out.  Leave, now.”

Merlin trembled, sick at heart, unable to comprehend what was happening between them.  He couldn’t leave.  Arthur turned around, and in his face was unchecked anger and grief.

A tear spilled down Merlin’s cheek.  The words came without conscious thought.  _“Bidyrnan_ _mé!  Astýran mec_ _ádwinan.”_

The whirlwind disappeared, and Arthur was left alone in his chambers.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The council meeting had been long, and for the early part at least, quite routine.  Arthur had checked on Merlin first thing that morning, and something in the vicinity of his heart had constricted when he saw Merlin still unconscious on the bed, his condition unchanged, but Gaius had been quick to inform the king that Merlin _had_ woken once and was merely asleep now, and Arthur’s worry had eased.

It had felt odd not to have Merlin’s presence behind him as usual during the meeting, and twice he’d found his thoughts drifting, but each time Gwen’s quick squeeze of his hand focused his attention again.

It was in the final stages as the meeting was winding up, that the messenger had been ushered to his side:  Morgana had been sighted only a hour’s ride from the citadel, and with her, were four score men.  It was rumoured they weren’t mere mercenaries either:  their garments marked them as Saxons from across the sea.  That, coupled with reports of increasing activity in the two major seaports meant only one thing:  Morgana was planning another assault against Camelot, and her threat would carry more weight than previously.

Arthur was lost in thought as he hurried back to his chambers.  He’d farewelled Gwen with a brief kiss after the meeting had ended:  she was going to the kitchens to oversee an inventory of the castle’s food supplies.  He was preoccupied both by the danger to his people posed by Morgana, and also by a twinge of anxiety about Merlin.  It was close to the evening bell, and Gaius had assured him he’d send a messenger once Merlin had woken again, yet no one had came.

Arthur acknowledged the guards outside his chambers with a nod, and was inside his room with the door shut again before the scene in front of him registered.

Icy fingers snaked down his spine, dread gripped his belly and made his heart pound furiously.  What madness was this?  Water was mating with ash and disappearing upwards into thin air.  A scrap of cloth was racing frantically over his bedhead: it could be spreading deadly poison everywhere.  And his armour was glowing with an unearthly light: would dark magic bring him to his knees in battle?

And then, his heart almost stuttered to a stop, as bile clawed at his throat.  For a moment he was certain, with an anguish that had never been surpassed, that _Merlin was dead_.  He was slumped over the table, and even from across the room Arthur could see the red slash of fresh blood blighting the white of the bandage on his head.

A tremendous roar of agony, of fury, of _something,_ almost escaped;  but as he gasped and choked for breath he saw a slight movement, but it was still a movement:  Merlin’s shoulders inched up and down as he breathed, and time began to turn again in a blinding burst of joy, because Arthur knew he’d been given a second chance.

Arthur’s battle-honed instincts took over.  Carefully, he drew his sword.  He didn’t yell for the guards:  firstly he had to get Merlin to safety before the sorcerer, wherever he was, launched another attack.

He was across the room as fast as he dared, moving with cautious speed past a scrubbing brush that was twirling wickedly in midair, then sliding an arm beneath Merlin’s chest and dragging his limp body to his feet.  Merlin stuttered to awareness and his back went rigid;  he squirmed in Arthur’s hold, twisting, “Arthur, what?”

“Sssh,” he hissed in Merlin’s ear.  He fumbled with Excalibur, and yanked Merlin back against his chest.  “There’s a sorcerer, did you see him, did he hurt you?”

Merlin wasn’t co-operating, he was wriggling against Arthur’s hold, and he muttered something else and Arthur shushed him again.  Another drop of blood welled through the bandage on his head and Arthur felt a momentary surge of anger and protectiveness:  he’d _kill_ whoever had done this to Merlin.

Merlin was still struggling to be free, and despite Arthur’s admonishment to be quiet, he said, his confusion evident, “I don’t understand?  What’s wrong?”

Merlin twisted again, and managed to wriggle an arm free, and that was when every truth Arthur had known in his life ceased to be.

The duster flopped onto the floor, still.

The ash from the fireplace stopped its dance with the water, and faded away.

Merlin had given up trying to escape the circle of Arthur’s arms, but his head was turned to the side, and his face was confused, bewildered.  And his eyes, _his eyes_ :  just for a moment Merlin’s blue eyes were no longer true, but a horrifying, glowing gold.

Arthur knew he’d remember it forever:  the magical spiral of water from his bath trickling up and away.  The rapid pounding of two heartbeats, his and Merlin’s, pressed together from back to chest; _never ever again_.

Life before this moment, and aftewards what could never be.

An explanation about a dragon and a destiny that didn’t make any sense.

The magnitude of Arthur’s feelings terrified him, and he knew he couldn’t have Excalibur so near;  and he smashed the sword across the room with a violence that did nothing to help his composure.

He didn’t remember ordering Merlin away.  But he must have, because there was a gush of air in the room and he was alone, bent over and almost on his knees, panting, choking, and shattered.

For a while, he stayed where he’d fallen, in the centre of the floor, and tried to remember what it was like to live and breathe.

Awareness came slowly.

The duster, no longer animated with magic, was abandoned on the bed.  For a while, numbed, he stared and stared.  Then, taking a deep breath, he stumbled to his feet. He picked it up.  The very idea of touching it revolted him, but ... he was curious too.  It looked the same as it always had, it felt the same as any other scrap of cloth.  But it had been enchanted with magic, _with Merlin’s magic._

He placed the duster with exaggerated precision on the table.  It didn’t move now, the life in it had disappeared.

Excalibur was lying in a shaft of sunlight beneath the open window.  It was safe to have the sword in his hand again.  Merlin was gone.  Merlin had left.

It occurred to him he was shaking.  He sat down slowly at the table, like an old man, bones creaking and body weary, and placed the sword flat across his knees.

He had a kingdom to protect.  He had a war to plan:  if they were caught unawares again it would turn into another siege.  He couldn’t afford to waste any time or energy on thoughts of a liar and a deceiver, on a friend he’d cared for, on someone he hadn’t known until now he’d trusted unconditionally.  He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of mourning, betrayed by one he’d loved more than a brother, who’d only practiced to deceive.

There was no time to think about Merlin.

He felt like he’d been flayed until he was raw, he wasn’t ready to see anyone.

He’d have less than half a candle mark before Gwen came looking for him.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

And now, Arthur bent his head.  He jammed the palm of his hand hard across his mouth.  Excalibur fell from his knees, and clattered onto the floor.  His shoulders shook and quivered, and, for a little while, Arthur allowed himself to grieve.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Bidyrnan_ _mé!  Astýran mec_ _ádwinan.”_

Merlin landed perfectly in his small room in Gaius’s chambers, right beside his bed.  The gust of air that heralded his arrival shook the half empty cup of water on his night stand, and he flung out a hand instinctively but he was too late and the cup tumbled onto its side;  water surged then dripped in a steady _plop, plop, plop_ from the small table onto the floor.

A faint noise alerted him and he turned on one heel, looking through his open door and down the stairs.  Gwaine was sitting wide-eyed on a chair, almost comical in his shock;  and Gaius was beside him, frozen into stillness in the act of bandaging a cut on the knight’s arm.

Their silence screamed louder than words.  Merlin met their stunned gazes for a moment, his own face bleak.  He spared a glance for the dripping water:  the growing spill retreated and the cup righted itself as the water reversed its path.

Gwaine made a strangled sound that could have meant anything, but Merlin didn’t have it in him to care:  wearily, he collapsed onto the edge of his bed, putting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

He ignored the slow tread of boots ascending the stairs.  The bed pressed down beside him.  “Merlin?”

The edge of Gaius’s robe appeared in his peripheral vision.  Merlin stared unseeingly at it for a moment, then took a deep breath, and said very quietly, “Arthur didn’t know.”

Gaius was silent.  “Oh.”  He put his arm around Merlin’s shoulder, comforting.  “I see.”

Gwaine cleared his throat and Merlin raised his head, meeting the knight’s eyes.  “That ... Merlin, that was ...”  Gwaine shook his head, still shaken; he was half-standing, half-leaning against the door to Merlin’s room.

Gaius gave Merlin’s shoulder a final pat then clasped his fingers tightly in front of him, his hands were trembling slightly.  “Merlin?”

Merlin stared straight ahead vacantly, the life that usually animated him drained away.  “I thought ... I thought he knew.  How could he not know?”

“Arthur?”

“He didn’t know,” Merlin repeated quietly, almost as if to himself.  “He didn’t know.  And I don’t understand how this could be.”

There was a scuffle of sound as Gwaine settled himself heavily onto the floor at the top of the stairs.  “I didn’t know either.”

“You didn’t?”  For a moment Merlin regarded him with interest, but then his expression faded to bleakness again.  He rubbed at his forehead, then took a deep breath and eyed the knight directly.  “And what do you think of me, now?”

“What do I think?”  Gwaine was still, as if considering, then he shook his head wryly, and his earlier edginess melted off him like snow on a summer day.  His face broke into a grin.  “I’m amazed, astounded, impressed:  that was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!  And I’m an idiot for not noticing it earlier too.”

The corners of Merlin’s mouth edged upwards fractionally.  “Thanks, Gwaine.”  Then his face dropped again.  “But Arthur doesn’t feel the same way.  And I don’t understand it.  Kilgharrah ... Kilgharrah never gets it that wrong, at least I don’t think he does.”  He swallowed, and steadied himself.  “And the prophecies cannot be gainsaid.  Yet I cannot see how they’ll come to pass because Arthur ...”  He broke off, focusing inwards again.

The physician in Gaius retrospectively noticed what he should have seen earlier.  “Merlin, you’re bleeding again.”

“Um.”  Merlin didn’t seem particularly bothered, but Gaius still had a clean cloth in his hand from his earlier preparations for dressing Gwaine’s wound;  he pressed it gently against the back of his ward’s head, against the growing stain on the white cloth.

Merlin allowed it for a moment, then his fingers replaced Gaius’s own, and before Gaius could caution him against it, Merlin pushed his power into the wound.  _“L_ _ácnian.  Purhhælan.  Hælbære.”_

But the blood welled again, and Merlin must have felt it, because he threw Gaius a look of confusion.  “Why didn’t that work?”

“I don’t know.  It could be something to do with Mordred’s spell though.  I suspected it might happen, magic coupled with more magic doesn’t always agree, you’ll need to let it heal in its own time.”

“Merlin?”  They both glanced across at Gwaine:  the knight was standing now, and he took a step closer.  “Could you try that on me?”

Merlin was mystified for a moment but when Gwaine turned around, Merlin saw on his other arm a trickle of blood from the wound Gaius hadn’t had time to stitch.

Merlin stood, raising his hand to the injury.  _“Hælbære.”_

Gwaine gave a small hiss as the wound disappeared and the skin smoothed over;  the only trace that it had ever occurred was the blood still marring his skin.  Then he grinned like a boy who’d witnessed something amazing, and Merlin smiled back, pleased, and sat back down.

“Merlin?”  Gaius was uncomfortable.  “Healing wounds ... discussing the prophecies, and, uh, the dra-, _Kilgharrah’s_ existence ... this isn’t something you’re usually so open about, with people.”

“It’s not?”

“Well, you do speak about such things to an extent with me.  But unfortunately,” and Gaius directed an apologetic look in Gwaine’s direction.  “You don’t with anyone else.  Your magic was a secret, remember.”

“But I don’t.”

“You don’t .. what exactly?”

“I don’t remember.  I don’t remember that it was a secret.  And that’s another thing that’s bothering me.  I don’t remember why you’re all calling me Merlin.”

The sinking feeling in Gaius’s gut dropped further.  “Oh, my boy, you are having trouble with your memory.  I should have realised.”  He hesitated for a moment, wondering where exactly he should start, but before he could draw breath Gwaine broke in.

“What should we call you then, Merlin?”  The knight was genuinely puzzled, and he shot Gaius a questioning look.

“Emrys,” said Merlin simply.  “That’s who I am.  That’s what I remember.”

The name didn’t mean anything to the knight.  He shrugged.  “Well if it makes you feel better, we can start calling you Emrys if you like.”

“No, no no,” Gaius broke in hastily.  “Don’t do that.  There were reasons you kept the magic, and the Emrys part of you secret, Merlin.  Don’t make a rash decision now when you don’t have all your memories.  And what do you remember, exactly?  If you tell us what you know, we may be able to tell you what you’ve forgotten.”

Merlin considered it.  “You asked me Gaius, how I cured Gwen, and I remember summoning the Triple Goddess at the Caldron of Arianrhod.  But I can’t remember the details, I didn’t tell you that earlier because it didn’t seem important, I just remember curing her.  Arthur was there, and so was ... Mordred.  How could I perform magic in front of Arthur of that magnitude and him not know?  It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well ...”  Gaius shuffled his feet, and an almost guilty look crossed his face.  “In that particular instance ... you wore a disguise.”

Merlin shrugged it off.  “But there are other things.  I know I’ve used magic around Arthur more times than I can count, how can it be that he didn’t know?  Why would I have hidden it from him?  It’s Arthur’s destiny to unite Albion, and return magic to the land.  It’s my destiny to protect him, and light the way.  I know this is so.  Why did he react that way?”

Gwaine gave them both a look that said this conversation was going beyond his brief, but whatever Gaius might have advised was lost as a sharp rap sounded at the door.  It opened immediately, and Leon strode in, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.  “Good, Gwaine, I thought I’d find you here.  And Merlin, you’re up, Arthur will be relieved.”  Belatedly, Leon became aware of the odd atmosphere, and his eyes shifted from one to the other questioningly.  “Is everything all right?”

There was a short silence before Gwaine shrugged carelessly.  “Sure,” the knight answered.  “Never been better.”

Leon seemed to accept that.  “Well, Gwaine, Arthur needs to see you immediately.”

Merlin suppressed a slight twinge of alarm as Gwaine stood, casually pulling down his sleeve to cover the wound that was no longer there.  “Sure, what does he want?”

“He didn’t say, he’ll save it until we’re all there.”

Gwaine took a step down one stair, glancing back at Merlin.  “Right.”

“Well?”  Leon looked at Merlin patiently when he didn’t move from the bed.  “Are you coming too, Merlin, or have you not recovered yet?”

Merlin was too taken aback to hide his surprise.  “Arthur wants me there too?”

Leon gave him an odd look.  “He didn’t say so directly, but of course he would, you’re always there, right?”

He didn’t think Arthur would want to see him.  But Merlin straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and followed the two knights out of the door.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for Leon to bring Gwaine to his chambers.  Gwen and Percival sat opposite him, talking quietly as they perused the maps on the table.

Arthur’s calm, slightly preoccupied facade betrayed no sign of his inner turmoil, he was as a king should appear.  But on the inside, where no one could see ... what he’d learnt wouldn’t leave his head:  _Merlin ..._

_Merlin was a sorcerer._

If the shock of such a revelation hadn’t been enough to forever haunt his dreams, the mode of Merlin’s departure was something that Arthur wished he could unsee:  Merlin had vanished into thin air.

And he’d vanished, because Arthur had told him to.

And it had occurred to him, that he might never see Merlin again.

Arthur hadn’t told anyone what he’d seen, or what he’d done.  The world still turned, even if its colours were less bright.  Remorse felt a lot like grief, but he refused to admit even to himself any semblance of guilt for sending Merlin away, he wouldn’t give it credence.

A king couldn’t wallow in self-pity, a kingdom wouldn’t flourish on regret.  And he couldn’t afford to have his knights distracted.  He had no idea what he’d say to them when they found out Merlin was gone.

He didn’t burn sorcerers.  He couldn’t burn a friend.  But when trust was broken, he didn’t know if there was anything left to salvage.

Leon’s voice and accompanying rap on the door forced Arthur out of his thoughts, and Arthur bade him to enter.

But ... Arthur couldn’t concentrate, could barely keep his mask in place, because with Leon and Gwaine, was Mer- ... _the sorcerer_.

The relief Arthur felt was instant and overwhelming, and made a mockery of his earlier attempts at self-deceit, but as his composure waivered, anger rushed willingly to his rescue, and a slow simmering _something_ , twisted like wildfire in his gut.  On the table, his hand curled up tight into a fist, fingernails biting into his skin.

But there was to be no confrontation right now, it seemed.  Merlin wouldn’t look at him, in fact he was doing his best not to make eye contact with anyone.  He shuffled away to the side, hunching his shoulders and answering Gwen and Percival’s smiling greeting in as few words as he politely could, before making himself scarce, taking up a place a few steps back from the table, against the wall.

Arthur was tempted to shout, _to order the sorcerer away_ , but instead he drew on his years of court etiquette and forced himself to push his personal feelings aside:  he could not deal with this too, not with Morgana’s threat closing in again.

Arthur finally glanced around the table at his knights and Gwen, noting Gwaine was glaring with an odd fury at the table.

Arthur cleared his throat, and the small talk ceased.  “We ride immediately, and in secret.  A scouting mission only.”

“We?  Where?”  Gwaine’s query was delivered in a tone bordering on surly, and Arthur raised his eyebrows in response, but before he could say anything further, Leon interjected.

“My Lord, do you think that’s wise?  Morgana is reported to have four score men with her.  To ride as a small cohort, well, if we are discovered, we’ll be in grave peril, and dangerously outnumbered.”  Leon had attended the council meeting with Arthur and Gwen.

“I’ve considered the risks:  the benefits we stand to gain are far greater.  We must know without a doubt what foe we will face in order to best prepare our defence.  The messenger could not be totally sure they were Saxons, nor the number, nor whether this was an isolated band massing under Morgana’s command or part of a greater threat yet to come.”

“But surely you would not want to risk yourself sire?  Let us scout them without you.”

Arthur shook his head.  “I need to see for myself, Leon.  Besides, no one knows the woods around Camelot as thoroughly as I do.  Morgana was reported to be camped near Ulster’s Green.  If we make good time we can reach the plains by dusk, and if the night is clear we’ll return by midnight.  Otherwise, we camp near the ford and return at dawn.”

Percival rolled up one of the maps he’d been perusing.  “And what of our defence strategy?  We must meet her in battle at a location of our choosing.”

“We all agree offence is our best defence.  A siege in the citadel would be a last resort, too many innocent citizens will be unprotected.  We cannot allow her to roam unmolested through our land.”

“Then where sire, will we meet her?”  Percival sat forwards in his chair.

“Hence the reason for the scouting mission.  If her army’s size is the same as when she took us by surprise with Helios’s men, then we can defeat her almost wherever we make our stand.”  Arthur pushed aside Percival’s scroll, and unrolled a new one, his fingers tracing a line over the map.  “Here we could meet her.  Or if she moves her troops this way here, here or here.”

Leon was still concerned.  “But if she commands a larger army sire, we’ll be outflanked.”

Gwen agreed.  “Yes, we’d need somewhere to draw her in.”

Percival smoothed the scroll he’d been reading out again on the table.  “If her army is as large as we fear, if her numbers grow to thousands, then the only point she could stage them is here.”  He pointed, and the others at the table nodded their agreement.  “Which means ...”  he considered the points on the map.  “To take Camelot, she would have to take her men through here.”

“Yes,” Arthur said.  “And we’d meet her at Camlann.”

_“Camlann?”_

Every head at the table turned in Merlin’s direction.

“Merlin?” Arthur found he was clenching his teeth.  “Do you have something you wish to contribute to this discussion?  Or are your skills better utilised ... dusting, or cleaning the fireplace, or let me see, _draining the bath in new and inventive ways_?”

“Arthur!” Gwen scolded, giving him a reproachful glance.

Merlin’s lowered gaze fired up.  “You can’t go to Camlann!”

“I beg your pardon?”  Arthur’s tone was deceptively mild.

Either Merlin didn’t hear the warning, or he choose not to heed it.  He said mulishly, “You can’t go to Camlann.  Find some other site.”

Leon cleared his throat awkwardly, “Merlin, you still look pale, perhaps Gaius could –“

Arthur stood up abruptly.  “Excuse us,” he said to the table.  “Merlin, come with me.”  He shot Merlin a fierce look as he stormed across to the servant’s room off his own, not waiting to see if Merlin obeyed.

Arthur slammed the door behind them, only realising once it shut how dark the room was with only a dull glow from one small window to illuminate it.

He grabbed the edges of Merlin’s jacket, yanking at him, and thrusting their faces close together.  “What was the meaning of that little display?” he hissed in a furious whisper.  “You should be counting your lucky stars I allowed you to remain in my sight!”

Merlin also seemed keen that they not be overheard through the door.  “You can’t go to Camlann.”

“I’m not an idiot, Merlin, I heard that message loud and clear.”

“But you’re not going to listen to me, are you?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”  Arthur dropped his hold and took a few irate steps further into the room.  He stumbled over something in the dim light, catching himself painfully on the edge of a chest of drawers.  He wanted to explode.  “Can’t you even keep things tidied up in here?  Would just a tiny amount of _reliability_ from you, be too much to ask?”

But instead of an apology, Merlin muttered, _“Leoht,”_ and Arthur almost jumped out of his skin.

 _“What are you doing!_   Are you mad?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Arthur.  It’s just a light.  It won’t hurt you.”

“It’s magic,” Arthur enunciated slowly through gritted teeth.

“So?”

Arthur threw up his hands in exasperation.  “If you’re angling for a trip to the dungeons then you’re heading in the right direction,” he snapped.  He wouldn’t think about Merlin’s whirlwinding sorcerer, probably-could-escape-from-the-dungeon abilities.  “Keep your opinions to yourself if you want to remain in my presence.”

But of course Merlin wasn’t intimated, anger also marred his face.  However his skin was pale in the strange blue light, he looked exhausted and ill, and the jacket he was wearing had his own dried blood still staining the collar.  Arthur forced back an explosive sigh and resisted the urge to hit something.

Merlin bristled for a moment longer, but then his gaze dropped and he fidgeted with the end of his sleeve.  He shot Arthur several tentative glances from beneath his lashes, then said almost timidly, “I don’t want you to go to Camlann.”

This time, Arthur allowed the sigh to escape.  He turned his back to Merlin, resting the palm of his hand on the top of the chest of drawers he’d kicked his foot on earlier.  Idly, he examined the pattern carved into the wood that was revealed by the soft, _magical_ light.  “Why not?”

Merlin was silent, and Arthur looked back over his shoulder.  Merlin was fiddling nervously with the stupid light, bouncing it up and down on the tips of his fingers.  He had that look on his face that Arthur had seen many times before, one that said he was going to tell Arthur something he didn’t want to hear and wasn’t going to like.

Arthur snapped, “Well?  Out with it then.”

Merlin’s chin shot up, and he tapped the light into the air.  “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”  He took a deep breath, and met Arthur’s gaze, holding it.  “The prophecies say you will meet your end at Camlann.  You’ll die if you go there, Arthur.”

Arthur was silent for a moment as he assimilated that disclosure.  “That’s nonsense.”

“You have to find another way.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out slowly; the anger that was sustaining him was waning.  “You really believe that?”

“If you go to Camlann the prophecy will come true and you’ll die.”

Arthur felt a headache building.  He shook his head, he wasn’t ready to deal with more magical things, or magical _pronunciations_ this time right now, but Merlin took the shake of his head as a sign of disbelief.

“You have to believe me, Arthur.”

“I’ll consider it, all right?  And will you stop that?”

“What?”

“Stop playing with the light.”  It was distracting, and although Arthur would never admit it it was slightly unsettling too:  Merlin was bouncing the magical sphere around like it was a toy, knocking it up in the air with the tip of his fingers before allowing it to float slowly back down again.

Merlin seemed confused for a moment, then realisation dawned.  “Oh, right.”  Merlin gave him a considering look and said tentatively, “Do you want to have a go with it?”

“No!”  Arthur was shocked.  “ _No I don’t._  Turn the bloody thing off, we’re going out to the others, I’ve had enough of this.”

“But ...” Merlin bit his lip, anxious and worried.  “You can’t go to Camlann, _please Arthur_ , you must believe me.”

Arthur sighed.  “Look, whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter.  Morgana cannot be allowed to prevail.  If Camlann is the only way she can be defeated then so it will be.”

Merlin gave him an unhappy look, but when Arthur jerked his head at the door Merlin moved obediently in its direction.

 _“Merlin!”_ Arthur gave him a pointed glare.

“What?”

_“The light!”_

Merlin scratched the back of his head and mumbled an apology; the blue glow winked out.

Arthur yanked the door open; never before had he felt so battle worn, and this time the war hadn’t even started.

Back in the room, Leon and Gwen were conversing in lowered tones with Percival;  Arthur didn’t miss the glower Gwaine sent his way.

Leon eyed them both and seemed satisfied.  “Sire, we touched on one more thing.  What of the reports Morgana may have sorcerers with her, as well as the dragon?  We’re at a loss as to what preparations we can make for a defence.”

Arthur couldn’t help the glance Merlin’s way, but Merlin had retreated back to his earlier stance near the wall:  he was still staring fixedly at the floor, and his hands were clenched into fists at his side.

Arthur said shortly, “I’ve considered that too.”  He had and he hadn’t, but regardless, he wasn’t going to discuss it further.  “Prepare your horses, we leave now.”

Leon only hesitated for a fraction before nodding obediently.  He stood, and Arthur said, “Merlin?”  Merlin’s head shot up, and the knights and Gwen glanced at him.  “You’re staying here, with Gwen.”

Merlin stiffened noticeably. _“No!”_  He seemed taken aback at the volume of his outburst, and he quickly modulated his tone.  “No, Arthur, please.  I need to come with you.”

Arthur said sharply, “No,” but when Leon looked surprised and puzzled Arthur knew he’d allowed too much of his anger to show.  He gritted his teeth.  “You’re not well enough, you’re still recovering, you’re staying here with Gwen.”

Merlin looked at him helplessly, but rescue came from an unexpected direction.

“I’ve been with him all afternoon, Arthur.  He’ll be fine, I can guarantee it.”

Gwaine’s tone was lazy, but there was an edge to it which focused Arthur’s attention, and he wondered darkly just what Gwaine knew.  Gwaine raised his chin and drawled, “What was it you said earlier, Leon?  Merlin always comes with us.”

Leon answered in the affirmative, but Arthur ignored them, his eyes were fixed on Merlin.  He said flatly, “Merlin.  Your head was bleeding again only a candlemark ago, and I need people I can _rely_ on, wouldn’t you agree?”

Merlin looked at him wide-eyed for a moment, but from beneath his lashes he shot Arthur a single glance filled with repressed fury.  Yet he said very quietly, his tone suitably respectful, just a single word, “Please.”

On the verge of snapping an angry retort, Arthur blinked.  Because that flash of emotion across Merlin’s face hadn’t just been anger:  there was wounded betrayal and hurt too, a plea to understand and for understanding, and it mirrored Arthur’s feelings so perfectly.  His nose prickled:  what right did Merlin have to feel this way too?

And Arthur couldn’t look away.  “Suit yourself,” he found himself saying.  “Go and pack, you’re all dismissed.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Despite their hurry, they didn’t ride out through the castle’s gates until much later than Arthur had planned.  They reached the ford near Ulster’s Green in good time, but by then, dusk was falling, and the growing lack of light made the prospect of crossing the river too hazardous.

Arthur ordered them to make camp under cover of a canopy of dappled trees, well away from the defined path but not far from the water.  They dug a pit for the fire;  the flames would need to be low so their presence would remain undetected.

Merlin seemed distracted, even a little dazed.  Arthur couldn’t stop watching him, not even when he realised he was not being as covert as he’d thought and his not so surreptitious glances had attracted attention from the knights.

Magic had created a barrier between them, and deep down Arthur recognised if he was ever able to overcome it, he’d need to at least learn more about magic.  But he wasn’t sure if he truly wanted to:  the idea of magic itself was vaguely distasteful, and that _Merlin_ was involved in its trickeries and half-truths was almost enough to make his skin crawl.  Yet he’d be hypocritical to pretend he hadn’t welcomed its use to save his beloved Gwen, and he knew he couldn’t have it both ways.

The breeze was picking up now, blowing the flames in their fire pit.  The sun had almost gone, and at this time of year once darkness fell it became cold very quickly.  The knights had fallen quickly into their regular routine when setting up camp, but it didn’t seem to occur to Merlin that he’d usually be responsible for carrying out particular tasks.  Instead he’d done his best to avoid everyone, and lingered around the horses, almost hidden from view between them as the light faded.

“What’s wrong with you?  Are you ill again?”  Arthur knew he sounded abrupt, and Merlin jumped, startled, and stumbled against Blackie.  The mare snorted and shook her mane, and instead of answering, Merlin turned back to her, pressing the side of his face against her neck.  “Merlin?”

There was no response, and Arthur shifted impatiently, but then Merlin glanced at him once fleetingly before he tipped his head back down, and Arthur felt a pang of something undefinable at the bleakness stark and sharp on the other man’s face.

Merlin sighed, and stared off into the trees.  He said quietly, “There’s a druid camp downstream.  They want me to meet with them.”

Whatever Arthur was expecting, it wasn’t that, and it took an act of will for Arthur to stop himself betraying his discomfort.

Merlin was still gazing out into the forest.  He offered in response to the unvoiced question, “I know, because they speak to me in my mind.”  He glanced once at Arthur and gave a small grimace before shrugging self-consciously.  “And it’s making my headache worse, but I can’t shut them out.”

Arthur had a moment’s regret that he’d started this conversation:  a Merlin who spoke freely of magical things he’d once kept secret was a challenge he still wasn’t sure he was ready to accept.  He said, “I see.”

Merlin turned, and in the faint glow from the fire, Arthur could see his face wore that slightly sad smile again.  “But you don’t, do you?  You don’t see anything.”  Merlin’s voice was soft, almost carried away in the breeze, and absently, he touched the bandage on his head.  “It’s mind speech, not everyone with magic can do it, but those who can, use it to communicate over distances.”

“Oh.”  Arthur crossed his arms.  “Then ... would you?”

“Would I what?  Use it?”  Merlin stopped patting the horse.

“No, will you go off?  Go off and see the camp, meet them, I mean?  Is this the sort of thing you’ve done before?”

Merlin regarded him, considering, and then he said almost dreamily, “I remember the druids.”

Arthur wondered if that was going to be his entire answer but then Merlin added, “They tell me things.  Sometimes, they speak in circles, like ...”  He trailed off.  “I suppose if you didn’t know about mind speech then I’d have met them before without you knowing.”

“And was that what you were planning to do again, meet them in secret, somehow?”

“It does seem the easiest way of doing it, doesn’t it?”  Blackie nickered and nudged Merlin, and he rewarded her quest for attention by resuming his gentle stroking against the side of her neck.

Arthur very carefully examined the rough slide of bark on the nearby tree and said quickly before he could change his mind, “Invite them here instead.”  He didn’t have to look at Merlin to feel his uncertainty at this olive branch.

But then, “All right.”  It was almost inaudible.  “Yes.”

* * *

The druids came when it was completely dark, drifting out like two shadows from the trees near Leon and making all of Arthur’s well-trained knights start in surprise.

Only Merlin didn’t move from his position on the ground:  he’d been sitting silently with his back against a log near Gwaine, huddled in his bedroll and resisting all attempts to be drawn into the quiet conversation over the campfire.  His expression had been vacant, and almost pensive, and now and then his fingers brushed against the wound near his head.  Once or twice, Arthur thought he saw him shiver.

Arthur waved away the knights’ concern at their unexpected guests:  Gwaine and Percival settled easily, but Leon’s hand lingered a moment longer on the hilt of his sword.

“Please, will you sit.”  Arthur welcomed them, however the two silent figures hovered for a moment at the edges of the campfire until they spotted Merlin’s prone figure on the ground half hidden by Gwaine, and now with a bedroll hunched around his shoulders.  A week ago Arthur would not have noticed their visitors’ enigmatic glance in Merlin’s direction, but now Arthur was in a whole new world.

The taller druid pushed back his hood to reveal a head of silver hair.  “We greet you, Once and Future King,” he said politely to Arthur.  His glance Merlin’s way again was almost too quick to notice.

Arthur introduced his knights, watching the druids’ reactions carefully when it came to Merlin’s turn, but if they knew him already, or were here on his behest, they didn’t show it.  The one who’d already spoken said, “I’m Iseldir.  We met many years ago, twice, although I doubt you’d remember.  And this is my son, Lorien.” 

They took each other’s measure, then Arthur cleared his throat.  “What brings you here?”  Merlin was gazing off into the shadows of the forest as if he wasn’t planning to be part of this conversation, or, of course it might be that he was distracted:  the extraordinary notion of _mind speech_ hadn’t left Arthur’s thoughts.

Iseldir spoke plainly.  “You seek Morgana Pendragon and her army.  They are camped a half day’s journey from here by horseback, on the far side of the river.”

Arthur exchanged a glance with Leon.  “You’ve seen them?” the knight asked.

“Yes.”  Iseldir turned Leon’s way.  “She travels with a company of men from across the sea.  There are four or five score with her, and more arriving at the seaports and travelling through our lands every day.”

Arthur considered.  “Why do you share this knowledge with us?”

“Some years ago you gave my people a promise to respect them, Once and Future King.  You have done so.  And Morgana Pendragon has never had our allegiance; she is no friend to many with magic.”  His eyes were grave in the soft glow of the fire.  “Our loyalties lie elsewhere.”

Arthur nodded, considering.  “Thank you, Iseldir.”  His attention shifted to the younger druid:  Lorien was far less practiced than his father was in the art of being inscrutable, Arthur had noticed he’d been quite unable to keep looking in Merlin’s direction, shooting him several glances from beneath his hood.  “Do you have any other information that could be of benefit to us?  We have reports she has sorcerers with her.”

He sensed a hesitation in the druid before Iseldir glanced Merlin’s way, but Merlin didn’t appear to be paying attention at all.  The druid ducked his head, his impassive expression slipping just a moment into frustration.

“Those that came with her from across the sea have no magic.  This we are sure of, as several of the Catha have infiltrated her camp.  They confirmed her men are without magic.”

“The Catha?”

Iseldir’s eyes flickered once again in Merlin’s direction.  “A magical order who have no love for Morgana.”

Arthur waited expectantly, but Iseldir didn’t elaborate any further.  “I appreciate your information.”

The druid acknowledged him with a barely perceivable movement of his head.  “It grows late, and we must return to our camp.”

“Not yet.”  Merlin spoke quietly, but every eye turned to him.  He tugged at the bedroll covering his shoulders.  In the firelight, his face was flushed and this time Arthur was certain he saw him shiver. 

Arthur wasn’t the only one who noticed, beside Merlin, Gwaine frowned.  “Mate, are you all right?”

Gwaine’s concern was ignored, Merlin’s eyes locking with the druid’s.  “Iseldir hasn’t finished yet.  Because that’s not all, is it?”

Iseldir looked from Merlin to Arthur then back again, then he said carefully, “Uh, it’s not?”

Merlin tugged at the bedroll again, wrapping it tighter around him until only his face was showing.  He blinked slowly and said dreamily, “You didn’t tell them about the dragon.”

The druid seemed un-nerved.  “I didn’t know if you …”  He hesitated, then, “Yes, the dragon.”

Leon stiffened.  “The dragon?  The pale one that was with Mordred?  She has it?”  Then he shook his head.  “But how did you know, Merlin?”

Merlin half-smiled to himself, he seemed a little dazed and it wasn’t clear if he’d registered Leon’s question.  His reply was directed at the druid.  “The dragon.  Morgana has it, you’ve seen it, and you don’t know if we can defeat her with it at her side too.  Don’t worry, Aithusa won’t be a problem, I’ll take care of the dragon.”


	7. Chapter 7

There was a loaded silence after Merlin’s declaration, then Gwaine rushed into the breach, springing to his feet then crouching in one swift action beside Merlin. “Merlin, you’re talking nonsense, you have a fever.” The knight pressed the palm of his hand against Merlin’s temple as his hard stare around the campfire dared anyone to accept his challenge. “Ignore him, he’s delirious. He’s not well.”

The druids were also on their feet now, and so were Leon and Percival. Gwaine seemed ready to draw his sword, and only Arthur hadn’t seemed to react, Leon and Percival’s uncertainty turning to confusion.

Leon looked from Merlin, to Arthur, to the druid, then to Merlin again. “Merlin, you said … _what did you say?_ Arthoo … Arthoosa?”

“Stand down.” Arthur’s mouth was grim, his tone firm. This wasn’t happening, not now. “That’s an order. Leon, Percival, Gwaine, sit back down.”

He waited impatiently and when they obeyed, a half dozen quick strides took him around the campfire to Merlin who was still lying half prone against the log. Arthur took a deep breath, forcing down his anger. He ignored Gwaine’s bristling, hunkering down to repeat the knight’s actions and laying his own hand against Merlin’s forehead.

There was a tight silence before Arthur exploded. “Damn it to hell, Merlin. You shouldn’t have come with us!”

“Sire?” Leon questioned.

Arthur spun around, yanking Merlin’s backpack closer to the fire into the light, and unbuckling its straps. “Gwaine’s right, he’s burning up,” he said tersely, and if Arthur hadn’t already suspected that Gwaine knew something, then the obvious lessening of the knight’s tension at his statement excusing Merlin’s claim only confirmed Arthur’s suspicions. Arthur gritted his teeth and rummaged through the pack with sharp, jerky movements, losing patience quickly when he couldn’t find what he was looking for and upending Merlin’s pack over the damp ground.

“Arthur …?”

It was voiced softly, but Arthur didn’t want to look at his manservant. He was angry, and he wanted his anger to be justifiable for simple reasons: that Merlin was jeopardising their mission because he was clearly ill, he was burning up and hence talking nonsense.

Yet Arthur was fully aware that a large part of the repressed fury that had simmered in his gut since the world had changed scant days ago was because no matter what, he still cared about the sorcerer half lying on the ground in front of him. And caring about a sorcerer was never something he thought he’d ever do: magic was at best vaguely distasteful and unpleasant, but at worst an evil hiding in the shadows. It wasn’t, and it shouldn’t, be Merlin. Yet it was.

“Arthur?”  


Merlin might not be the man he thought he knew, but in his persistence at least he was ever constant. Arthur turned, meeting his manservant’s gaze in brief acknowledgement. Merlin’s eyes were slightly unfocussed, fever-bright, and he’d extracted one arm from his nest of blankets, and was scratching his fingers against the back of his head.

Arthur forced himself to glance away, busying himself sorting through the mess of small satchels and containers on the ground. “You’re sick, you idiot,” he said shortly. “We need to get your temperature down and get you back to Gaius.”

Arthur found what he was searching for, a small pouch which he knew was powdered willow bark. He looked up, and found Gwaine. “Here.” He thrust the pouch into the knight’s hand. “Mix a dose as a tea.”

“King Arthur?” There was movement at Arthur’s side and he spared a glance at the druids: both had shifted closer without him noticing, and Iseldir crouched down beside Merlin, clearly worried. “King Arthur, he’s bleeding.”

And he was: Arthur didn’t know how he’d missed it before. Merlin’s hand had dropped back to his side and the tips of his fingers were smeared with crimson blood.

The druid crouched down beside them both. “Emr, uh, Merlin.” He placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding, Merlin.”

Merlin’s gaze returned to the ground. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

Iseldir shot a glance Arthur’s way before returning his attention to Merlin. “Can I help you?”

Merlin shook his head slightly, wincing at the movement. “I tried. Nothing works.”

Was this an obscure reference to magic? A shiver ran down Arthur’s spine, and as if sensing Arthur’s discomfort the druid shifted uneasily before he said, “Will you let me see? Turn towards the fire, to the light.” Iseldir turned him carefully, his fingers working deftly to remove the bandage. He shook his head. “You’ve been spelled, Merlin,” he said, shooting another troubled glance at Arthur, and the younger druid peered around to frown at the wound too.

Lorien breathed quietly, dismayed, “Is it a _gescendp_ spell, father? I’ve never seen one like that, but the shimmer is there. See it?” His fingers traced a thin, glossy line of silver across Merlin’s head. “It’s a dull grey until it catches the light. It has to be.”

Before Iseldir could respond, Merlin answered calmly, “Yes, Gaius thought so too.”

Arthur asked before Gwaine could voice the same question, “And what the hell is that?”

Iseldir began to replace the bandage. “It’s a spell of illusion, of confusion.”

Gwaine asked, “And what exactly does it mean?” He crouched beside Merlin, handing him the willow bark tea.

The druid’s eyes flicked across to the knight before he continued his calm winding of the bandage. “It means he may be confused.”

Gwaine snorted his disgust at that answer. “Helpful, thanks. He’ll recover soon, won’t he? Are you all right, Merlin?”

“I’m okay. Just a bit, well. You know.” He shifted, swapping the steaming mug of willow bark from one hand to the other.

“We don’t though, Merlin,” Percival said. “Tell us.”

Merlin hesitated. “All right, then.” He said, slowly, “I can’t remember events, or situations properly, it comes and goes. I think back to last week, last month, longer, and it’s there, but it’s not all there, and I don’t know what I’m missing. And I feel uneasy when you call me Merlin, because it seems … it seems not quite right.”

He added calmly, “But I remember everything about the prophecies ... my, uh.” His expression slipped into confusion for just a moment, and he stumbled to a halt. “But, um, the spell will fade, won’t it Iseldir? I’ll remember everything again, eventually."

Iseldir was grave. “I cannot say, Merlin. It’s not a spell that’s meant to be cast into the blood.” He shared a significant look with his son then his gaze switched to Arthur. “King Arthur, if Merlin is agreeable, I seek your permission to take him back to our healer. Your knight,” and he nodded his head at Leon, “may recall our healing prowess. Merlin can stay with us for a few days and when he recovers, we’ll escort him back to the boundaries of Camelot.”

“No.” Arthur’s refusal was automatic. Even if Merlin was … what he was … the idea of entrusting his care to druids was not something Arthur was comfortable with. And the threat of Morgana’s army was too near. “Our physician has already examined him. We’re returning to Camelot at first light. He’ll travel with us.”

“Arthur.” Merlin struggled to stand, pushing himself up on the log with one hand while he held the mug in the other.

Arthur grabbed hold of him as he swayed. “Merlin, you idiot. Sit back down. Drink the willow bark.”

Merlin resisted. “I don’t need a healer, or a physician.” But the pinched discomfort on his face was obvious in the glow from the fire, and he didn’t seem to be aware that he was allowing Arthur to support most of his weight. He swayed again, his head ducked as he turned away, and it was only because Arthur bent down to sling one of Merlin’s arms across his shoulder that he noticed his manservant’s eyes flicker momentarily to gold as he murmured something indistinct.

Arthur’s heart jumped, and then beat frantically in his chest, his grip tightened involuntarily around Merlin and he couldn’t stop the quickly stifled hiss of escaping breath.

Merlin seemed to find his feet again, and Arthur went cold all over. And then Gwaine was there, and Arthur allowed himself to surrender his grip.

“Merlin, sit.” By the faint note of alarm in Gwaine’s tone, Arthur knew the knight suspected something, but after a hurried glance at the druids and the other knights Arthur was sure no one else had seen.

Gwaine said with forced cheer, “It’s a miracle you haven’t spilled the tea. Come on, drink, now.”

Sitting on the log, Merlin raised his head and Arthur was sure he wasn’t imagining the sharp lines of pain had eased to a degree on Merlin’s face. Obediently, Merlin took an experimental sip, then made a face. “The dosage is too strong, Gwaine. I can take some, but it thins the blood and with this,” he touched his head lightly, “the tea needs to be weak. Otherwise it may bleed too much again.”

Arthur hardly heard their interaction as he tried to swallow down his shock. Merlin had used magic again. And so subtly and with such quick ease too, as if it was something he did every day. Arthur shivered, staring without seeing into the deepening shadows of the surrounding forest, into the night. A king cannot turn a blind eye forever. There’d never be a pyre, he’d known that straight away, but could he ever be comfortable with this? Could he ever accept it? His thoughts were in turmoil and he didn’t know their end.

“Sire?” Leon’s tone indicated it wasn’t the first time he’d voiced Arthur’s name, and Arthur came back to the present. He couldn’t do this, not now, not with Morgana out there.

“Be ready to leave at first light.”

But Arthur’s command almost went unheard as another cowled figure burst without warning from the trees. 

“Iseldir, My Lord, I apologise for the intrusion but please, you must come at once!” This druid was just a young boy, Arthur realised immediately. The child was holding his side, and he gasped for breath, panting. “Please, hurry, our camp is under attack. Come now, there’s a dragon!”


End file.
